LONE WOLF
by HealthCorkscrew28
Summary: After the aftermath of Sherrinford, Sherlock and John are happily back in the repaired 221B Baker Street. However a mysterious figure comes to visit them. Another client? Or perhaps someone else?


**A Piece of "Sherlock" Fan Fiction by Ben Selfridge**

" **Lone Wolf"**

Although the renovation and repair was a success, to John Watson's displeasure, Sherlock Holmes is composing violin monodies again, is his consulting come living room at 221B Baker Street, frantically scratching away at those four worn out strings and filling manuscript with musical cyphers.

"There he oscillates again John" Sherlock exclaims briefly breaking from his Stradivarius.

"Who?" John replies nearly spilling his tea.

"Our friend with the hoodie" Sherlock states in a somewhat familiarity.

"Oh, the hoodie that boasts an RB on it" Watson says with an air of triumph.

"Yes" Sherlock says in a congratulatory tone.

This mysterious figure has been watched by Sherlock and John for the best part of a fortnight, but the "RB" logo obviously has Sherlock's attention as the more he sees "RB" he still thinks of the harrowing truth of Redbeard. After the horrific game orchestrated by Eurus at Sherrinford, his most potent thought was "poor Victor." However, Sherlock finds this peculiar, as he knows that the frequency of people oscillating on the pavement outside of 221B, has dramatically decreased in recent times. Due to recent events highlighting the newly crowned "Prince of Baker Street" to be more "human" now. Therefore, if anyone was in need of help from Sherlock Holmes, the public need not hesitate. Thus, Sherlock thought, was it himself and John watching this figure, or was the figure watching them?

"He's crossed the road, onto our side of the Street now" John utters holding back the net curtains.

"What do you think?"

"If you mean take a look at him and tell you the precise reason why he is here, and oscillating the pavement like he is a hungry pigeon looking for scraps, then yes." Sherlock utters raising his head again from his Paganini impression.

"Well?" John ejaculates somewhat impatiently.

"Well" Sherlock commences.

"He looks like one of my rats of the homeless network, an extremely nervous man who suffers from a chronic addiction to drugs due to shaking in both his right leg and his right arm, I am saying heroin or alcohol (bit like me, bless him, barring the nervousness, but don't worry John, I promise not to relapse again as there is for sure no more Culvertons living in London). Where was I? Oh yes. Due to his attire, it has clearly second hand, as his trainers still have the old layered barcode stickers on the soles, and gift aid tag strips are still on his jogging bottoms, but the reason why he's oscillating is for three obvious reasons, either he knows of my past indulgences and is waiting for me to come down and "hook a brother up" so to speak but is undecided to do it because he is anxious of meeting a celebrity, or maybe he wants to wean himself of the drugs and knows that a doctor is here who has supplementary substances in his possession that could gradually get him off the sauce, like you and Molly Hooper did me. Or perhaps he happens to be both junkie and client and has at last for us a case."

"Or maybe he's just cold, and is moving to keep his body warm, it's brass monkeys out there Sherlock." John responds both emphatically wearing a dumfounded face.

Sherlock expectantly dismisses John's remark and returns to his composition.

The mysterious figure nearly gets run down by a taxi, causing a sudden change in pace. The figure amasses the courage and at last there is a knock on the door at 221B. Both Sherlock and John get ready by cleaning the place in order for them to assume their positions.

Mrs Hudson opens the door and assumes her role of the consummate hostess.

"Oh, hello my dear" says Mrs Hudson welcoming in the hooded figure.

"You must be catching your death out there, come on in!"

"I'll go and tell the boys you're here, but I don't remember them having an appointment at this hour, but then again at my age, eh Haha!" Mrs Hudson says in a friendly easing tone.

"Thank you" replies the man.

The man unzips the left pocket of his hoodie, and takes out his mobile phone to compose a few texts to pass the time he would have to wait.

Mrs Hudson turns back whilst climbing the stairs and says.

"How do you take your tea?" she asks generously.

"Erm, I don't have tea, I have my hipflask here, thanks all the same though." The chap replies still shaking like an autumnal leaf.

After a five minute pause, with what seemed like an eternity to the uneasy hooded man, Mrs Hudson returns.

"They're ready for you now, are you sure you don't want any broth?" she continues kindly.

"No thank you, you're a very kind lady, I don't know how you put up with all of this" the man states attempting a bit of small talk.

"I don't have to really, they're like family. I'm here to support them no matter what my dear." Mrs Husdon says warmly.

"Hmm… family…" The man says deep in thought in a frustrating tone.

"Thanks again" he recapitulates.

He climbs the stairs himself and is finally ready to meet the famous boys of Baker Street.

An unsteady knock is performed on the door by the mysterious man, and the door is answered by John.

"Good morning, I am Dr. John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes" John says, formally, welcoming the man, like he welcomed every other client who walked through that door.

"Please have a seat and tell us your difficulty, and we will aid when and wherever possible sir" John continues.

As the man sits down rolling up his sleeves, the "RB" on his hoodie is too clear for comfort for Sherlock, however another alarming anatomical discovery is made by Holmes after he scans the mysterious man's arms, the man that sits before him is a redhead.

"So…sir…commence with your torrid tome of which we could help" Sherlock utters with a certain wobbly timbre.

"Firstly, I am not a client, but I do have a story" The man says with a resurrected confidence, with both the faces of John and Sherlock paralytic with attentiveness.

"I need to tell this story in the interest of clarity. At a very young age I was welcomed in by a kind family, and they thought me like one of their own. But after the years went by I was cast out by one of them, and was made into something that I wasn't. I became close with one of the boys of the family, it was like we were real brothers, friends to the end, you know. But she, that bitch, didn't like it one bit. Like I wasn't in the same league as her and her family, but my best friend in the whole world thought I was, and I was holding on to that faith." He pauses to take a sip from his hipflask. However, whilst the man takes his drink, Sherlock looks at the hipflask design: skull and cross bones, Sherlock begins to perspire a little, and John looks over concerned but they do not interfere in the man's recounting. The man continues his story in a more seething tone.

"But when that "something" happened I was left in the dark literally, and on so many levels. A certain something that de-humanised me and got me thinking that I was less than everyone else, but over the years I have started to think that is absolute bollocks, in fact in a morbid sort of way I have thank the witch that cursed me" he continues, with the atmosphere in the room nearly at the peak of awkwardness.

"Sounds like to me sir, you are in need of a pych.." John begins

"No John let him continue, he needs to do this" Sherlock interjects, whilst sitting rigid in his chair and still looking at the man with piercing wide eyes.

"I now look at you, and realise that now you know that you are looking at a ghost, but even you should have dug a bit deeper than you did, to remember" The man states, directing this comment straight to Sherlock.

"I should have taught you how to dig Sherlock, after all I was your dog!" The man resoundingly utters with immense angst.

"No, it can't be!" Sherlock shakenly utters.

"We never did finish that pirate game did we Sherlock!" The man says, pulling out the old pirate bandanna that Sherlock knew now as an object confirmation, of who he has been listening to.

"No, no, no no, I was in the well, and I found the skeleton of Victor Trevor there. You are not Victor Trevor!" John screams with a degree of terror, with Sherlock now shedding a tear of astonishment.

"The skeleton of an old cabin boy!" The man reveals, as if it was a clear explanation to a magic trick.

"Well there is only one way to prove to you that I am Victor Trevor." The man says confidently, turning his attention to the window, to which Sherlock is now looking out of.

"I know, there will be no need for that…Victor, I like you, have just seen my brother's car arrive." Sherlock says, with his teeth chattering.

Mycroft bursts into the room with a disapproving Mrs Hudson, trying to restrain him, armed with an apologetic tone.

"I have only just found out myself Sherlock, and when I did have the knowledge of his whereabouts, I would have let you know immediately, but he has been incredibly illusive of his location, even the Governmental location systems and your trusted homeless network knew nothing about this" Mycroft stares at Sherlock, but Sherlock's worry at the moment is not about the competence of his brother, but the fact that his old friend has resurrected and is in his room.

"V,,Victor" Sherlock exclaims with tears running down his face, uncharacteristically opening his arms for the warm embrace of Victor.

"I can't" Victor blubbers, holding Sherlock back.

"Why?" Sherlock splutters.

"Because of my intention, Sherlock. She took a life from me. I have become I nervous alcoholic wreck, because of what a little witch did to me all those years ago, she turned you against me and virtually left me for dead. Well I am not a dog that fetches anymore, I have undergone another transformation my friend, one that I never wished upon myself or one that could take something away from you." He raises his hipflask one more time, not to drink, but to throw vehemently against the wall, the one bearing the yellow smiley face, causing a dent in one of the eyes.

Victor continues his mission statement.

"No more will I drink this poison, I have drunk enough, but I do hunger. I have hungered over something for so long. She is not a little girl any more, and the things she has done, not only to me but to her own blood, you. She has to answer for these crime Sherlock, in a very permanent way indeed."

"She's in that hell hole Sherrinford, that is her penance!" Mycroft issues, with grave apprehension, whilst the gathering of the room still have their jaws decidedly earthbound.

"No, I have come to realise that even that place, is not cage enough for her dark deeds. I am sorry" Victor still blubs, now turning to Sherlock.

"I can only imagine only one outcome to this but I need you to confirm it, what is your intention Victor?" Sherlock says managing to control his faculties.

"I am no longer the dog that fetches, but now by her dark craft, I am a desperate, hungry and now violent lone wolf, who so wants his pound of flesh. I have already placed my order for my meal Sherlock. The only way that my hunger can be satisfied now, is for her to die." Victor says in a fit of agonising frustration.

John immediately reaches for his mobile, with D.I. Lestrade's number already keyed in. Upon seeing this Sherlock stops the call being made.

"I understand your pain" Sherlock begins

"Sherlock!" Mycroft says in an anxious air of authority

"Mycroft! I understand your pain Victor. We were all deceived by Eurus."

"DON'T SAY THAT, SHE HAS NO NAME!" Victor yells, with everybody cringing in fear.

"We were all deceived by her, but she is damaged, like you, surely you can relate Victor?" Sherlock implores.

"I am sorry Sherlock… Mycroft. This hunger runs too deep for friendly candour to quash."

A loud screech, echoes down Baker Street. A black London cab, which Victor has been waiting for.

"Whilst I was waiting for you, I texted my cabbie friend. This is my ride Sherlock, and I think you know where I am going. It was good to see you again, ship mate!" Victor says still an emotional wreck

As soon as those words passed Victor's lips, he jumped out of the window, bounced off the Café awning and landed on the pavement. Immediately getting into the taxi. Everyone in the room, still rigid as a result of what they have just experienced, sat down to calm themselves, but after a well needed breath to reassert their wares, a potent dose of realisation hits John and he bellows:

"What are we all waiting for, we have a lone wolf on the loose and he's after your sister!"

"I know John" Sherlock quietly whimpers.

"But I have a horrifying feeling, that Eurus already knows that her judgement day has come." Sherlock says with a sense of futility.

Mycroft arranges for an emergency reconnaissance convoy, which arrives in double quick time, Sherlock and John join the convoy by getting into Mycroft's limousine. Mycroft gives the order to all units:

"Follow that hackney carriage!"

"Which one sir?" asks a helicopter co-pilot.

"The one heading to Sherrinford!" Mycroft exclaims with an urgent tone.

"Operation LONE WOLF is go!"


End file.
